Chapter 1

The fires in his forge burn like the pits of

Hades themselves. Flames lick along the steel he hammers, mirrored

in the red hot blade he forces into shape. Sweat drips down his

back and pools beneath his arms, in his palms, between his legs. It

courses down his grimy face, stinging his eyes for a moment before

he wipes at it roughly with one dingy forearm. He pauses to shift

his weight from his bad leg and wince at the calluses that have

formed on the bottoms of his feet from standing so long in such

heat.

Then he leans over his anvil, hammer raised,

and easily finds his rhythm again.

By the time the steel cools, the blade has

begun to submit to his vision. It’s far from finished, and the

smithy god mortals call Hephaestus knows it will take many long

hours before the sword is ready to be borne into battle. It will be

a hero’s sword, commissioned by the gods themselves, paid for with

this new forge deep in the heart of an island off the coast of

Greece. His workshop is isolated in a lone mountain called Thera

which rises like a stubborn tooth on the western side of the

island. Its shade obscures the morning sun, keeping the

temperatures of his forge down during the early hours. Hephaestus

rises before dawn to take advantage of the weather. His fires take

longer to stoke, but his leg doesn’t ache with the heat and he

works faster when the temperature outside makes the forge

cooler.

But as Helios races across the sky, the

mountain’s interior warms and even an immortal being succumbs to

the flames. Shortly before dusk the forge reaches its peak—iron

tools burn to the touch, and the fires sizzle with a white glow

that rivals the sun. Dipping the battered blade into a nearby

bucket of tepid water to harden it, Hephaestus wipes his brow with

the back of his arm and grimaces at the sooty sweat that makes the

hairs along his forearm stand in the heat. He leaves the blade on a

nearby bench and reaches for a gnarled walking stick resting

against the stone wall. He has to lean heavily on the stick,

putting his weight on his good leg as the brace he wears on his

left creaks with each step. The leather straps are tight against

his knee and calf, the buckles searing into his skin, the metal

brace itself so hot from the forge’s ambient heat that Hephaestus

hobbles more than usual.

What kind of god feels pain?

It’s a question he’s asked himself a million

times, one for which he has no answer. He is not like his kin, he

knows. With one lame leg braced to keep him upright, a walking

stick to keep him mobile, harsh features, brooding eyes, a wiry

beard crackling with flame, and ropy muscles forged from smithing,

he is nobody’s idea of perfection. Indeed, far from it. A lingering

odor of burnt solder clings to him, adding to his manly stench of

sweat and musk. His bed is narrow and lonely, his sheets filled

with soot and regret. His wife refuses to enter his forges—even

this island paradise isn’t good enough for her, the frigid bitch.

Not that he wants her here. He likes being by himself, alone with

his thoughts, with nothing but the sound of his hammer counting out

the minutes. He likes waking when he wants, working to his own

schedule. At his forge he feels complete, whole again and not just

an immortal being encased in the fractured image of a man.

* * * *

A narrow tunnel leads from the forge through

the base of the mountain to the western edge of the island. Off the

tunnel are caverns, rooms Hephaestus calls home. Even here he feels

the fire’s heat trail after him. The farther away he gets from the

furnace, though, the more tired he grows. It’s the source of his

strength and energy, as tangible a part of him as the blood in his

veins. With each step he feels the pangs and pains of this mortal

form settle into place. His bones ache. His muscles throb. His leg,

gods! If he could manifest into another shape without his deformity

following him like a bad dream he would, but no matter what body he

selects, he is always lame. At least the human body is strong

enough to bear his passion for his work, dexterous enough to create

his inventions. Hephaestus would settle for no other form. And

after a day bent over a blade, bending the iron to the will of his

hand, any manifestation he took would feel just as weary as this

one does now.

The tunnel opens onto a small glade. A

handful of trees cling to the side of Thera before foothills roll

away to the sea. A freshwater pond pools at the base of the

mountain, fed by a small stream that cuts along the side of the

mountain to the north. The pond continues past the trees, winding

downhill in a series of little rapids on its way to the ocean. It’s

a lovely view, with the sun hanging low in the sky like the fiery

orb at the heart of a furnace. A large, flat rock by the pond’s

edge provides a good spot to rest after a hard day’s work. All in

all, not a bad exchange for one small sword.